Phoenix
by epicfrenchfry
Summary: The birth and the death of a nation are both such beautiful things, but the rebirth even more so.


**Happy birthday to our dear Arthur Kirkland! So, this fic plays a bit with the idea that, similar to in Noragami, when a personification is failing but the nation is still around, they would disappear and be replaced. I also wanted to play around with Scotland a bit, so...**

 **I do not own Hetalia!**

* * *

When a country comes into being, it is sudden. There is no birth, no spectacle, just a simple beginning of ends. Most often they skip the infancy stage and spawn as toddlers. It was this way with Arthur. There was nothing, and then there was everything.

He blinked open green eyes and raised tiny hands to rub away the bleariness in his vision. He looked around him with all the bright-eyed inquisitiveness of a puppy. Blond hair stuck up in fluffy tufts on his head, to be tamed at a later date. For now, his primary objective was exploring this marvelously strange place he was in.

There were tall things all around him, things he instinctively knew to be trees, and the chittering and chirping of animals. Just as he knew his own name, he knew that this place was his, and he loved it fiercely. Minuscule dots and streaks of colorful light danced around him in looping, messy circles.

" _Albión?_ "

" _He is here!_ "

" _Albión!_ "

These were faeries, he knew, and Albión was this place. Albión was _him_. He rose unsteadily to his feet and tottered towards the nearest one, chubby fist reaching out for it. It darted away, giggling in a high pitched and airy tone. Arthur gave chase, stumbling after the faeries on short legs not yet suited for running. He chased them until he grew too tired to move, and he dropped where he stood, giggling to himself.

"Oi, little lass! What're ya doing here?" called out a harsh voice quite suddenly.

Arthur's head popped up and he looked round, spying the source immediately; a redheaded boy was stalking towards him, hand resting on the ornate hilt of a sword slung through his belt. The boy faltered when he took in his appearance: those large forest green eyes were identical to his own, and that white dress was not a dress but instead the gown that all newborn nations appeared in. The boy's eyes narrowed and he stomped forwards, grabbing Arthur by the back of his gown and lifting him up like he were a toy.

"Ah, so you're a lad?" He grinned a malevolent grin, shaking Arthur a little. "Well, this land belongs to me, so ya might as well die now before I have to kill ya!"

Arthur stared back at him, eyes wide and fearful yet he remained completely silent.

" _Alba!_ "

" _Unhand him! That is_ our _child!_ "

He looked up sharply, dropping Arthur at his feet. "Fae...? Who are you?"

" _Albi_ _ó_ _n,_ " murmured the faeries lovingly. The boy they called Alba regarded Arthur with dawning comprehension and growing dislike.

"I see... Kid, my name is Allistair. Ya could say I'm your big brother, but if you dare call me that I'll kill ya. Come near me, I'll kill ya." He eyed the faeries with mixed apprehension and respect before turning on his heel and storming away without a backwards glance.

" _Be wary with him, child. He stands by his word._ "

With rounded eyes, Arthur watched his brother depart, an overwhelming grief filling his tiny chest. Tiny fingers itched to reach out, to call for his brother to come back, but he refrained. He turned his attention to the faeries, swarming around him with their warm and friendly light, and he vowed to do just fine on his own.

* * *

With the same quiet dignity, a nation dies. Arthur, once Albión but now Britain, lay pale and sickly in bed. Faeries once again surrounded him, their bright and cheerful auras out of place in such a desolate room. He had not fallen in battle, nor had his country been lost. Britain was torn in strife, ripping itself apart at the seams. His government was in shambles, hanging on by a thread. So long was it that he had hung on to life, that the two sides within him had battled it out and the victor was decided. As Arthur drew his final, quivering breaths the lights of the faeries dimmed. Their quiet murmurs filled his head, soft shushing voices coaxing him to sleep. Allistair stood to the side, arms crossed and looking pissed.

" _Sleep, dear Albión._ "

" _We will take care of your successor._ "

" _We will guide him, like we did you._ "

"So this is it?" Allistair asked gruffly. "Too stubborn to let anything but your own people kill ya?"

Arthur was voiceless, but his eyes spoke a wry chuckle.

"We'll take care of 'im," he went on, "so don't worry little lass. Just go,"

So he did, and when his prone body faded out of existence and a tiny blinking child appeared, it was with an empty smile that Allistair gathered him up into his arms and looked down at him with the barest hint of warmth in his gaze.

"Hey, kid," he began. "My name is Allistair. I'm your big brother, and I'm going to take care of you now, okay?"


End file.
